In this sense, we wonder whether universities are also responsible for the epistemicide, for they also have tried to kill our way of knowing.

—Célia Xakriabá, “Indigenous Women on the Frontlines”

In a settler colonial context, no clear line can be drawn where colonialism ends and patriarchal violence begins. The fight against patriarchy and sexual oppression is intertwined with the fight against settler-colonialism and capitalism.

—Al-Qaws in Eman Alasah, “Queer Liberation and Palestine”

The “Fourth World” model . . . comprises indigenous populations in parts of the world where they are excluded from power and describes a process of decolonisation, which is grounded in revitalisation of indigenous practices that settler-colonialism sought to destroy.

—Denise Monika Schallenkammer, “The ‘Grandmother’ of Indigenous Filmmaking”

Several years ago Meridians joined many academic organizations and institutions in the United States by acknowledging that our Western Massachusetts–based offices are on Nonotuck land. In this we formed part of a wave of solidarity with Indigenous peoples that necessarily begins with recognition of how settler colonialism is deeply ingrained, embedded, and naturalized in every way, from place-naming conventions to thought structures. Further, as a first step toward moving from acknowledging to acting in the spirit of redress and forum building, Meridians undertook an audit of the content we have published in the twenty-four years of our existence. We found a shocking (if all too common) lack of Indigenous feminists and/or Indigenous feminist work in our oeuvre to date. As a result of this data-driven insight, and by way of beginning to transform our archive, we have endeavored to increase the participation of Indigenous feminist scholars and knowledge producers as peer reviewers and contributors to the Meridians project. Editor Candelario’s preliminary efforts yielded several publishable submissions focused largely on the Americas. Rather than intersperse these among other issues, we decided to devote an entire issue to Indigenous feminisms across the world.1

Meridians then invited several Indigenous U.S. scholars with long-standing ties to the journal to guest edit or co–guest edit a special issue with editor Candelario, whose scholarly expertise includes racial formation in the Americas, but none were able to take on this project. However, one of those Indigenous consultants suggested that Basuli Deb, a Bengali scholar who works on materialities of Indigenous and transmigrant lives and who has published in Meridians, would be well suited to the role. So it was then that Deb and Candelario began their collaboration as coeditors of this special issue, which we hope will inspire future submissions to Meridians, as well as proposals for issues guest edited by Indigenous feminist scholars of feminism, race, and transnationalism.

This new special issue on transnational feminist approaches to Indigeneity intervenes in conversations where “decolonial feminism is often associated with Indigenous scholars and those from the Americas, and postcolonial feminism with scholars from South Asia, Africa, and the Middle East,” thereby contesting “the spatial markings of decolonial and postcolonial feminisms” (Ramamurthy and Tambe 2017: 504). Collaboratively harnessing postcolonial and decolonial approaches to strengthen South-South epistemologies, including those in the South spatially marked as the North, this special issue also refuses temporal markings, “the eclipsing of post-colonialism . . . and a setting up of decolonial feminism as always already better in time” (Ramamurthy and Tambe 2017: 504). Our issue underscores how Indigenous histories blur the boundaries between franchise colonialism that decolonial scholars associate with nineteenth-century Asia and Africa, and settler colonialism that they attribute to the Columbine Americas. For instance, settler colonialism began on the Indian subcontinent more than sixteen centuries before Christopher Columbus set foot in the Americas. Other feminist editors such as Priti Ramamurthy and Ashwini Tambe have encouraged us to heed decolonial feminism’s emphasis on engaging with settler colonial genocide, its legacies of land dispossession in our times, and transnational gendered racial capitalism. However, the “intellectual incommensurabilities” of postcolonial and decolonial approaches do not elude them, as they highlight that “the emphasis on hybrid identity formation and migration in postcolonial literary studies was difficult to reconcile with the centrality of land and blood in narrations of Indigenous identity in decolonial studies” (Ramamurthy and Tambe 2017: 510). Our issue intervenes to generate a dialogue between such incommensurabilities by bringing migrancy and miscegenation into conversation with land and blood, questioning the segregation of decolonial and postcolonial approaches to Indigeneity. Here we hope to bring together conversations about Indigeneity from across Asia and Africa as well as Australia, Europe, and the Americas. A transnational comparative approach to Indigeneity between the Americas and the “elsewhere” as a philosophical category enables a productive decentering of the Western Hemisphere. Thus, our goal is to explore the praxis-driven possibilities of activist, creative, and epistemic engagements within and across world-wide Indigenous politics, economies, histories, and peoples.

Though several of the contributions in this special issue are framed through the contestations of the nation-state by various Indigenous communities, this in no way suggests that the issue attempts to conceptualize the identity of Indigenous peoples through the Westphalian system. In fact, the editors of this special issue remain critical of the United Nations which, despite its 2007 Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, operates through a frame of Westphalian sovereignty. Given that Indigenous peoples are disenfranchised by nation-states across the world, and U.N. officials are representatives of their own nation-states, Indigenous peoples are left in a vulnerable state when transnational justice can only operate at the level of the United Nations through the instrument of the nation-state (Deb 2015). However, our vigilance about Westphalian sovereignty does not imply a homogenization of all Indigenous cultures; rather, it is an attempt to recognize the specificities of Indigenous feminist claims in their geopolitical contexts while forging trans-Indigenous linkages between and among them to validate a Fourth World movement paradigm that shifts perspectives beyond the paradigm of the nation-state. The articles in this special issue offer a range of interventions into conversations about Indigeneity. Though the case of the stateless Palestinian people fighting for Indigenous self-determination problematizes a paradigm that refuses to consider the state as an instrument for social benefits, in the wake of the manifested interdependence of heteropatriarchy and settler colonialism in the region, Palestinian feminist and queer movements are situating local struggles within a transnational context to empower solidarity movements.1 The Assyrian case offers a powerful intervention into current trends of thinking about Indigenous peoples, particularly in the context of the prominent postcolonial project of Kurdish self-determination and statehood on occupied Assyrian land that geopolitically and discursively renders Assyrian Indigeneity invisible. Ainu feminist artivism makes a counterintuitive intervention into Indigenous epistemologies by insisting on Ainu similarity with rather than difference from the dominant Japanese community, in the process reclaiming liberal notions of the “human” on their own terms as a force of decolonial subversion.

In this moment of history, contributors and editors are in a fraught situation. We walk a tightrope between intervening in the capitalocene and its concomitant epistemological and systemic violence that have resulted in intensifying environmental disasters, and not imposing neoliberal demands on Indigenous peoples to perform their scripted and exotified ontological connections to the ecosystem ethnographically. Elizabeth DeLoughrey warns us that while a generation of “salvage anthropologists” have concentrated on the ruins of Indigenous culture, using “ethnographic allegory” to increase awareness about climate change, it has resulted “in a genre of mourning the loss of both island and nonhuman nature that I term ‘salvage environmentalism’” (DeLoughrey 2019: 32). As editors, we would like to problematize not only the binary between Indigenous peoples and metropolitan society, but also the homogenization and romanticizing of Indigenous populations as embodying the ecosystem. For instance, Greenland, which is part of the North American continent, though it has been controlled by Denmark since the 1720s and has subsequently served as a U.S. military base, has gained sovereignty over its natural resources of oil and uranium only recently under the 2009 Self-Government Act. Ulunnguaq Markussen eloquently points to the irony of metropolitan society calling upon Arctic peoples who are not responsible for the climate crisis to “forego economic development and extractive industries” (Markussen 2017: 307). For Markussen, such calls to transform Arctic territories into “a form of World Heritage and present the Arctic as a treasure belonging equally to the world as a whole, are ultimately requests that we who have been so long exploited and so thoroughly dispossessed further sacrifice ourselves for the continued wellbeing of those who have proven unwilling to make sacrifices” (307).

As editors, we could only include contributions that were submitted for consideration, and as such in our editors’ introduction we have tried to acknowledge interventions that get short shrift in conversations about Indigeneity. We invited activist, creative, and scholarly submissions, as well as overlaps of these, that both include and decenter the Americas in thinking about Indigeneity. We sought submissions that would create space for voices about gendered Indigenous epistemologies and practices grounded in experiences from other transnational, regional, and local experiences that are regularly marginalized in conversations about Indigeneity in the Americas. Submissions focused on New Zealand, Australia, Kenya, the Democratic Republic of Congo, Somalia, South Africa, Indonesia, India, the Philippines, Palestine, Kashmir, Okinawa, and Ainu were especially of interest to us, as our call for submissions indicated, and we solicited submissions focused on those regions when possible. Ultimately, we received enough submissions that successfully underwent double-blind peer review and offered geographic as well as topical range that we decided to publish a second “Indigenous Feminisms across the World” issue in spring 2025. We hope that these two special issues will encourage other feminist Indigeneity scholars to submit their work to Meridians more generally.

As is our practice, we open this issue with the Elizabeth Alexander Creative Writing Award (EACWA) prose winner for 2023, Cece Roth-Eagle’s “Mes del viento / Month of Wind.” Roth-Eagle’s piece was double-anonymized selected from more than one hundred submissions to the 2023 EACWA contest, so we were pleasantly surprised to discover that she was a recent Smith College graduate. That her piece aligned with this issue’s “Indigenous Feminisms across the World” theme was equally serendipitous. The Meridians Creative Writing Advisory Board called it a “masterful blend of narrative with scholarly power” and “emblematic of the work that Meridians strives to publish.” Written in three languages—English, Spanish, and Mapundungún—the piece relates Roth-Eagle’s experience as an undergraduate student researcher working to understand and learn from a Patagonian Mapuche community leader, Amancay, its first female longko, in fall 2022. Amancay and her community shared their history and ongoing efforts to counter the epistemes, policies, and practices that harm their lands and their peoples in the name of “development” and “progress.”

Likewise, Elena Ruíz’s Counterpoint, “Structural Trauma,” offers a philosophical reading of the semantics and logics of the settler colonial epistemic, ontological, and political violence that sustains “settler colonial wealth while simultaneously exonerating White settler culpability” in order to argue for “a politicized understanding of trauma that foregrounds . . . lived realities of asymmetric harm” (33). In other words, while all humans can and do experience trauma, BIPOC communities live in “hot zones of traumatological effects” by design in that they suffer “population-level harms” caused by the hegemonic economic, political, social, and cultural orders that sustain settler colonial power. Thus, responding to trauma necessarily entails political as well as psychological, emotional, and spiritual interventions that address cause as much as effect. This is poetically reiterated in “Open Your Mouth,” a poem by Yael Valencia Aldana that draws on the Mesoamerican figures of Coatlicue and Jaguar woman as emblematic of Indigenous survivance, rebirth, and regeneration.

An analysis of spirituality’s central role in “collective healing, political resistance, and radical social change” is the focus of Ruthann Lee’s “Honoring the Spirit and Creator: Indigeneity, Diaspora, and the Politics of Spiritual Relationality in Tannis Nielsen’s A Creation and Rosa Sungjoo Park’s Forgotten Dreams.” Lee’s Media Matters piece argues that what she calls “‘pedagogies of the Sacred’ help constitute a politics of spiritual relationality that attends to the uneven and contradictory effects of settler colonial capitalism on differently positioned” subjects who must address “questions of complicity, accountability, and the politics of solidarity” across, within, and between BIPOC groups. To illustrate what that might look like, Lee offers an examination of artworks by a diasporic South Korean artist and an Indigenous (Cree/Métis, Anishnawbe, Danish) artist in Canada, both of whom “use digital media art to honor their ancestral traditions and spiritual practices” while also striving toward solidarity and “co-resistance” to settler state inclusion (56).

Moving from the United States to Brazil, the In the Trenches piece for this issue is “Indigenous Women on the Frontlines of Climate Activism: The Battle for Environmental Justice in the Amazon,” a public address2 given by the Amazonian Indigenous activists Sônia Bone Guajajara (Guajajara/Tentehar) and Célia Xakriabá of Minas Gerais during their visit to Smith College in February 2020, which the professor of Brazilian Studies Malcolm McNee organized and hosted.3 Guajajara and Xakriabá each spoke of Indigenous organizing against the existential threats that capitalism, colonialism, and repressive extractive regimes pose to the planet and all its peoples. They “fight with the power of spirituality, nourished by [their] territories” and in solidarity with “poor and marginalized women, Black men and women, [who are] all in a [similarly] vulnerable position.” Guajajara notes that there are 305 different Indigenous nations living across 26 states and 274 spoken languages in Brazil despite more than half a millennium of settler colonial efforts to destroy, “integrate,” and dominate the original peoples of the land. Despite forming just 1 percent of the Brazilian population, they protect 13 percent of the country’s territory and biodiversity, “sustain[ing] it through [their] daily fight on the steps of Congress . . . tak[ing] on rubber bullets, pepper spray, police brutality, jail time” (93). At the same time, Indigenous women leaders work against the gendered violence of settler colonial machista ideologies mistakenly characterized as Indigenous culture, calling for the interlinked decolonization of minds, spirits, bodies, and territory alike.

Similarly, Eman Alasah’s Counterpoint, “The Palestinian Feminist Movement and the Settler Colonial Ordeal: An Intersectional and Interdependent Framework,” documents how Palestinian feminist and queer organizations contest both the Israeli state’s “racist and discriminatory colonial policies against the Indigenous peoples of the land it occupies” and patriarchal Palestinian conservatives. Alasah argues that in the Palestinian context, patriarchal violence and settler colonialism “collude in oppressing Indigenous women” and LGBTQI folks must respond simultaneously to both. She analyzes two contemporary movements that “target [these] overlapping and complementary structures of oppression,” Al-Qaws and the Palestinian Feminist Collective. Both exemplify decolonial, anticolonial, and transnational feminist intersectionality that “seeks to end oppression ‘from within, as well as without’” (127).

We turn next to northern Fenno-Scandinavia and the Murmansk peninsula, where the Nordic settler colonial state and transnational capital engaged in iron ore mining have likewise endeavored to dispossess the Sámi people of their land. Ina Knobblock’s Essay, “A Rape of the Earth: Sámi Feminists against Mines,” draws on conversations with Sámi feminists engaged in anti-mining activism, artivism, and advocacy focused on protecting their “children’s and grandchildren’s natural environment, health, land, water, and local primary produce” as well as traditional reindeer herding practices. Knobblock argues that the Sámi relational episteme is rooted in the “interconnectedness between land, nature, and people” similar to the Abya Yala notion of the body-land/cuerpo-territorio continuum. Accordingly, mining’s impact on the earth and on Indigenous reindeer herding violates the land, its nonhuman and human beings alike, and forms part of the larger history of settler colonial gendered and sexualized violence against Indigenous peoples. Finally, Knobblock presents Ti/Mimie Märak’s poem “What Local People” as an example of Sámi artivist response to epistemically and ontologically violent settler colonial “denial of Indigenous . . . presence, cultures, and histories” (149).

The critical role of artistry and creativity in feminist Indigenous activism is likewise the focus of our second Media Matters feature by Denise Monika Schallenkammer, “The ‘Grandmother’ of Indigenous Filmmaking in New Zealand: Merata Mita—Film Is Her Patu.” Schallenkammer discusses Merata: How Mum Decolonised the Screen (2018), a film about the life and work of Merata Mita—an internationally renowned Māori activist, prolific documentary filmmaker, and single mother—produced by her youngest son, Heperi Mita. Merata Mita made films about her and her family’s experiences of “colonialism, oppression, misogyny, and sexism” that “(metaphorically speaking) [held] up a mirror” to New Zealand society in the 1970s and 1980s. Schallenkammer also presents Merata Mita’s own words to offer “a kind of portrait in which Merata Mita ‘speaks directly’ to the reader” (159). Along the way, we learn about both Mita’s filmmaking and the Māori community’s decolonial activism that she documented and screened internationally.

Our next piece, a stunning Visual Essay by Gina Athena Ulysse, offers a subtle but powerful example of artmaking as epistemology and ontology. “Tools of the Trade; or, Women’s Works” brings together kwi (gourds) made from the calabash tree—which is native to the Caribbean—and the ocher gifted to her by “a Wiradjuri artist in Darwin, the capital of Australia’s Northern Territory.” For Ulysse, this rasanblaj of Indigenous and Caribbean primary materials was the beginning of “a new conversation” about “the relationship between the quotidian, gendered labor, and the sacred.” Similarly, “Woman Digging Thorns out of Field,” our cover art by the Palestinian artist-in-exile Dana Barqawi, transforms another medium historically deployed in the service of colonialism, settler colonialism, and imperialism—photography—into a collage that “is a commentary on the politics of land and the colonization of the Indigenous body” (295). In this collage, Barqawi recontextualizes the fetishized object of the colonial gaze into a space that makes visible the subject’s general humanity and specificity. This explicitly “challenges institutional invisibility of Indigenous history and experience” and deploys “beauty . . . as a tool” to hoist the colonial gaze on its own petard (Botto 2022).

Mariam Georgis’s Essay, “Traversing Disciplinary Boundaries, Globalizing Indigeneities: Visibilizing Assyrians in the Present,” also engages with the theme of making Indigenous activism globally visible. Georgis focuses on the Middle East’s frequently overlooked Indigenous community, the Assyrians who live in Bath-Nahrain/Mesopotamia. An Assyrian international relations scholar, Georgis shows “the commonalities Assyrians share with other Indigenous peoples: invasion, dispossession, domination, and marginalization, and the context of the mythmaking of the invaders, which passes as political and cultural truth of the states founded” on their territory. At the same time, she reflects on her own “complicity” with the Canadian settler colonial society in which she lives and works as an (im)migrant who has been re-racialized as “Brown” and presumptively Muslim/potential terrorist due to her Iraqi citizenship. Her essay seeks “to bring the Assyrian struggle in[to] conversation and in solidarity with decolonial struggles and other intertwined struggles across the globe . . . [that challenge] the fundamental legitimacy of the nation-state structure.” Georgis’s intervention points to the problematic labeling/framing of (Middle Eastern) states that have emerged out of European colonization as “postcolonial” when, in fact, from the perspective of their territory’s Indigenous peoples they more accurately represent a new chapter in an ongoing saga of settler colonialism. Thus, for example, while understandable and even “valid,” the Kurdish liberation movement’s struggle for self-determination, redress of state-sanctioned violence, and the establishment of a sovereign nation-state of its own runs the risk of “building a state on occupied Assyrian land, resulting in the latter’s expulsion and subjugation.” In other words, Georgis raises and engages with an important question: “What [happens] when settlers are not White but uphold or emulate their occupation of Indigenous lands on the model of White supremacy?” (197).

Our second Counterpoint, Yurika Tamura’s “Rehumanizing Ainu: Performance of Desubjectification and a Politics of Singularity,” also takes up the question of how non-Western nation-states adopt and adapt European and American settler colonial ideologies, policies, and practices in order to claim Indigenous lands and dispossess Indigenous people. Specifically, Tamura examines how Ainu performers respond to the Japanese government’s formal recognition of Ainu culture by undertaking “a subversive desubjectification, a reformulation of their identity defined on their own terms” as human above all else. This strategy rejects the state’s strategy of narrowly defining Ainu culture as language, song, dance, crafts, and festivals, and of strategically eliding the historic and ongoing colonial violence against Ainu. Tamura’s own positionality “as a transnational Ainu descendant . . . a reconnector to Ainu heritage . . . and as an Ainu person” who was not “raised as Ainu” nor aware of her heritage when growing up in the context of a family culture that was “Ainu, Japanese, [and] Korean” in the Sapporo/Chitose area of Japan exemplifies the complexity of Ainu subjectivity and self-representation. Her positionality also leads her to reflect on the challenges of undertaking ethnographic research in a community that struggled to be officially recognized at home and internationally, as finally happened in 2008 and 2019 respectively. Tamura argues that Ainu performance artists such as Mayunkiki and Sekine Maya, and the Pirka Kotan cultural center, seek to move beyond official state recognition—which is necessarily premised on colonial interpretive frames for perceiving Ainu subjectivity as “deviant, savage, . . . outsider, . . . equated with colonial stigma”—by insisting that “the Japanese . . . imagine Ainu as regular people in a mundane scene” (220).

Continuing with the political paradox inherent in the pursuit of recognition by nation-states founded on the premise of dispossession, displacement, and disappearance of Indigenous communities, cultures, and histories, “What It Takes to be Counted” is Priti Narayan’s Interview of Ruby Hembrom, the founder of adivaani,4 the first Indigenous-run English-language platform for publishing and documenting Adivasi voices in India. Adivasi (plural Adivasis) is a term used to refer to the Indigenous peoples of Northeast India, and adivaani has published nineteen books since its founding in 2012, including several children’s books that “center Adivasi tellings in Adivasi voices, as a way to challenge colonial and mainstream representations” of their peoples and culture, and “to bring attention to Indigenous loss and reclamation.” Hembrom explains that she publishes in English because “that’s what it takes to be counted” and because although “English is as foreign to us as Hindi,” “translation is transmission.” She also explains that “Adivasi feminism responds to patriarchy entrenched in both colonialism and coloniality,” that Adivasi women’s relationship to their ancestral land is central to their feminism, as is “repossession of [Adivasi] knowledges, histories, and identities” (243).

Lori Barkley’s transcription and contextualization of Marilyn James’s thoughts on Smum’iem “obligation to educate” those outside Indigenous communities and to “engage” with patriarchy within the community—which Barkley titled “The Contemporary Origins of Smum’iem Matriarchy in Sinixt Təmxʷúlaʔxʷ”5—likewise offers a powerful example of Indigenous self-representation in the public history and culture realm. An author, storyteller, educator, and community advocate, James was Smum’iem matriarchy’s appointed spokesperson in the 1990s and subsequently became a smum’iem matriarch herself. In this piece James reflects on the centrality of matrilineality and matriarchy in the Sinixt Nation’s survival, explaining that despite the Canadian government designating it “extinct for the purposes of the Indian Act” in 1956, “a matriarchal war is raging, it’s raging alive, it’s a firestorm” that is inspiring young women to “be of service” to the cause (260).

Moving from Indigenous matriarchy to motherhood, Esther Oluwashina Ajayi-Lowo’s In the Trenches essay, “Safe Motherhood Initiative: Whither African Indigenous Birthing Knowledge?,” critiques the coloniality of the World Health Organization’s Safe Motherhood Initiative (SMI). The SMI was launched in 1987 to address high maternal mortality rates in low- and middle-income countries, and was quickly adopted by the United Nations and global NGOs. Ajayi-Lowo attests to the program’s success in establishing Western/Global North medical paradigms and norms as superior to autochthonous Global South maternal, midwifery, or community knowledge and practices by recounting her own experiences as a forty-something-year-old Nigerian mother of four who devoted her “feminist activism for reproductive health and human rights in Nigeria . . . [to] making Western maternal healthcare available, accessible, and affordable for women” despite having grown up witnessing the Indigenous “birthing wisdom” of women in her community. A miscarriage and near–maternal death experience in 2007 “due to medical negligence” within the SMI-modeled system of Nigeria became a “turning point toward remembering the African Indigenous knowledge and practice” displaced by the SMI’s hegemony, and led her to research “the perspectives of Indigenous midwives and birthing women who use their services in Lagos, Nigeria” presented in this piece (266).

Finally, we close by noting that Huanani-Kaye Trask (1949–2021) passed away while this issue was in progress. As Meridians readers surely know, Trask was an indomitable Native Hawaiian anticolonial activist, scholar, educator, and poet. A political scientist by training who taught at the University of Hawai‘i at Mānoa and was the founder and director of the Kamakakūokalani Center for Hawaiian Studies there, Trask was also a leader in the Hawaiian sovereignty movement until her death. Trask’s life and work exemplified transnational Indigenous feminism devoted to decolonial political action and anti-imperialist solidarity (Williams 2021). Thus, we dedicate this issue to her legacy and celebrate her example: a hui hou.



An inquiry into legal-administrative documents from the British Mandate years in Palestine, such as the Balfour Declaration of 1917, British White Paper of 1922, and the 1938 Macdonald White Paper, together with the diplomatic papers of James MacDonald—the U.S. ambassador to Israel in 1948—is especially useful in understanding Palestinian Indigeneity and earlier imperialist decision making that led to the predicament in the region today. See Columbia Rare Book Manuscript Library, Herbert H. Lehman Collections.


Elena Langdon, a Smith College undergraduate majoring in Portuguese, translated from the Portuguese language to English, and we include both the original and translation here.


McNee’s introduction offers brief biographies of Guajajara and Xakriabá and their leadership in Amazonian Indigenous environmental justice movements.


We follow the organization’s convention of writing its name entirely in lowercase letters. See


This piece is a selection from her “Maps of My World” graphic and digital memoir project; the audio file is available in our website’s “On the Line” feature:

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